


My Little Runaway

by chinesebakery



Category: Fleabag (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Fleabag and the Priest run into the sunset, No Spoilers, because who doesn't want to run away right now, loosely based on the premise, run au, with no explanations or questions asked
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:41:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23720230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chinesebakery/pseuds/chinesebakery
Summary: Years ago, on their one-night together, they made a pact – one word and they’d drop everything and run away together. She had thought it was a joke. Apparently, it was not.(Run AU)
Relationships: Fleabag/Priest (Fleabag)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 74





	My Little Runaway

**Author's Note:**

> All the thanks go to TinyLittleText for being the most wonderful sounding board and cheerleader. It's always such a joy to discuss fic ideas with you!

“Father!”

The relentless banging at the door was no match for the pounding in his ears. With shaky hands and a growing sense of urgency, he raked through the vast cupboard that stretched along the wall. If pressed for an answer, he couldn’t have begun to explain what it was looking for.

Down went his prized ceremonial habit, piles of collectible bibles he’d amassed over the years, forgotten unmarked CDs and a mostly empty bottle of cheap gin. 

There was something utterly thrilling about the complete chaos that had fallen upon him.

_Bridge, meet matches._

“Father, I can _hear_ you,” Pam hollered, the frustration in her voice growing along with the intensity of her hammering. 

With a broad swing of his arm, he swiped down the contents of the top shelf in a satisfying flurry that fueled his fury better than any liquor could. He could feel the crisp shattering of glass splinters under his soles, the shuffling of scattered pages of torn books.

_What next, what next?_

He turned to face the desk he’d sat behind for all those years while hundreds of parishioners planned their futures and spilled their hearts, and was seized with an irrepressible urge to tear the bloody thing apart.

The first drawer went flying toward the wall, sending scraps of paper, business cards, tired pens and bank receipts falling about in a satisfying storm.

"Father, we need to talk about this,” Pam pleaded desperately. “This is _not_ the end of the world!"

He would have laughed at that, if his eyes hadn’t fallen upon the newspaper clipping that had landed on his shoe. 

He recognised it instantly, even before he picked it up and a familiar tide of longing washed over him. How long had it been stuffed there, under years worth of everyday life tokens? He’d never allowed himself to dig it up, but he’d never forgotten it was there. 

It was nothing fancy, really. Just a short article from a local paper. A young business owner reflecting on the unlikely success of her guinea pig-themed café. 

The picture didn’t do her justice, not by a long shot. Her face wasn’t made for abrupt black and white. Her beauty was plain to see, her fine features and triumphant smile captured for posterity, but it was missing all the nuances, and the softness she so reluctantly let through.

That smirk, though. That unforgettable smirk.

Of all the people he’d met in his life, those who’d come to him for help and those who’d extended a hand to him, the one-time lovers and the long-lost partners… She was the one he thought about when he’d forgotten not to. He’d only allow his mind to build the most innocuous of scenarios. A fortuitous meeting at Boots. A passenger jostling him in a crowded bus. A ceremony honoring a friend of a friend –

His stomach twisted in knots as he stared, transfixed, and an idea began to take shape. 

That silly pact they’d made, years ago, lying naked together, spent and dizzy with happiness. Would she remember? God, it was an enticing idea to flee the ruin he’d made of his life and run away with _her._

The odds that she might respond, though, were infinitesimal. He hadn’t heard from her in 5, maybe 6 years – surely she’d built a life for herself in all that time, one she wouldn’t leave behind on a whim for a fallen priest who’d run for the hills and broken her heart.

It would only take one word, just one single word, and he was burning to find out for sure. 

“You’re leaving me no choice, Father,” Pam bellowed, and from the sound of it, she’d resolved to use her body as a battering ram.

His eyes travelled across his devastated office, the floor littered with the debris of his life and the priesthood he’d devoted the last decade of this life to. He had little left to lose – did she? 

With quivering hands, he dug his phone from his jeans pocket and before he could think twice, typed the three fated letters – _RUN._

***

It had to be a joke. Or an unbelievably well-aimed accident. At worst, unsolicited advice from some boneheaded interventionist God overly invested in her fitness level.

It couldn’t be –

She had things to _do,_ goddamnit. She was supposed to pick up her boyfriend’s good suit from the cleaners and buy a bottle of wine for dinner at her father’s and probably drink the whole thing in anticipation because God knew her Mother-in-law wasn’t softening with age. She had a new yoga routine to procrastinate ever trying and a wardrobe she’d promised to Marie Kondo within an inch of its life this coming weekend for the past eight months. She was a _busy woman_.

She couldn’t stand there staring at her phone and obstructing sidewalk traffic all day.

She didn’t recognise the number. Not that it meant anything – it had been _eons_ , after all. The message though… _That,_ she remembered perfectly. There wasn’t a thing about that night she was likely to forget. It’s not everyday one falls desperately in love, seduces a priest, plots a terminally romantic escape across Europe and gets dumped at the bus stop for _God,_ all within the space of 24 hours. But she was over it. She was _finally_ over it. 

_RUN,_ her phone stubbornly read.

Rationally, she knew there was no other choice than to delete the text, get the suit, drink the wine, dodge the snide remarks, shag the boyfriend stupid for good measure and try her best not to lay up at night wondering for all eternity. But to her greatest regret, she’d always had a mile-wide reckless streak, and although she’d improved in recent years, self-control still wasn’t technically her forte.

They’d never seen each other again after her father’s wedding day. He’d promised her it would pass, and it had, eventually. Or rather, it had dulled. The edges weren’t as sharp as they used to be and barely drew blood anymore. The memories had faded, and she seldom lingered on thoughts of his face, or his voice, or the unparalleled thrill of their one night together.

She _liked_ her life, actually, and she wasn’t so thick as to believe in do-overs. But when offered a chance to watch the world burn, she’d never been able to decline the matches. The flames were already high, reddening her cheeks, sending waves of adrenaline flooding her veins, her heart pounding so hard she was panting.

She could always turn back, couldn’t she? It wasn’t a contract inked in blood. Just a text – people sent dozens of them everyday. Good texts, bad texts, drunk texts, wrong-number texts. Relationships made and unmade, lives ruined, bad decisions and unflattering nudes. Of all the texts in all of the world, this one felt like the most momentous.

How long had it been since she’d last indulged in a dazzlingly self-destructive move?

 _Boo would_ love _this,_ she thought, and with a bolstering, fortifying breath, she typed, _RUN._

***

It would be quite an accomplishment if she made it to the train without being tackled by zealous Samaritans before she reached the platform. She had to look disturbed at best, pacing tirelessly across St Pancras’ arcade for hours on end with no luggage or purpose, her attempts at lunch and tea abandoned and untouched since she just couldn’t sit still long enough for a bite. 

Sometimes between her 6th and 20th passing, she’d caved and made an about-turn after walking past the MAC counter, and there was no denying the kick she got out of buying a tube of ‘Dare You’ lipstick, the kind she used to wear in her priest-beguiling days, until her current boyfriend had complained about stains and stickiness and how he liked her better without her game face on. Damn, it felt good to put it on again. 

“Calm your tiny tits, you psycho,” she hissed at her own reflection in the restroom mirror, and grinned amiably to the older woman who rushed out with a huff and a disapproving glare.

In a few minutes, they would announce boarding for the 17:01 Eurostar to Paris Gare du Nord, which left precious little time for her to decide whether she would commit to this disaster in the making or pitifully weasel out. If she left right now and jumped in a taxi, she’d be late for dinner, her boyfriend would be annoyed about the forgotten suit, but there’d be only minimal lying needed, no significant damage and no lasting guilt. 

And yet, she couldn’t keep her feet from moving to follow the crowd of travellers, and it wasn’t until she’d stepped into the onboard bar buffet that it occurred to her that every part of her was clenched so tightly, she was ready to burst.

“Can I get you anything, Miss?” The middle aged attendant surveyed her with the wary eyes of a man who wasn’t unacquainted to the sight of people blowing up their life on a whim only to regret it almost immediately and have a proper meltdown in the buffet carriage.

“Paper bag to breathe into would be nice,” she said, soldiering on with a half-shrug and a valiant attempt at a grin.

“How about a gin and tonic in a can?” 

The voice chiming in behind her was distinctly Irish and warm enough to melt the stainless steel counter from under her fingers. As her insides froze and melted all at once, she took a long, deep breath, in from the nose, out through the mouth, as Claire relentlessly drilled into her every time they talked now she was all about mindfulness and balance and Martin-less nirvana. 

She turned around, straightening her spine and plastering on her best bright, winning smile, and there he was. All the longing she’d conscientiously buried so deep within her inner self she’d forgotten it was there soared and fluttered to the surface. She met his eye for the first time in five years, and the clever quips she’d crafted in earnest all afternoon died deep in her throat.

“I’m sorry,” he said after she failed to respond, looking remorseless and about as awestruck as she felt. “Was that a bit forward of me?”

“No, no. It’s fine,” she replied, wincing at her own evident awkwardness. The lines around his eyes were deeper than she remembered, and she yearned to inventory every minute change about him with all the fastidiousness he would allow. “It’s a long ride and I’m possibly having an existential crisis. I could use the company.” Her fingers were twitching with the urge to touch him. 

“In that case...” He grinned, the warmth in his eyes melting every last coherent thought from her brain. “May I interest you in –” He threw a circumspect look at the buffet selection. “– half a child-sized bag of chips and tepid club soda? Not to spoil you –”

“Oh, but I _love_ being spoiled,” she declared, reclaiming some of her usual aplomb, and delighted in watching his eyes darken on the spot.

*****


End file.
